The Fire King (Stormless Book 2), page 3
Ilyana nodded.
“What about the Blood Sorcerers? The Blood Sorcerers we found in the cave on the expedition said that Celes was already under their control,” Elric said.
Castien blinked. He was right. Elric had overheard such information just before he ambushed the Blood Sorcerers’ outpost over a week ago.
Ilyana paused. “It doesn’t matter,” Ilyana said. “Celes is the only home I have left. Even if what we heard is true, I doubt I will be barred from entering my own city.”
Elric looked to Arthion, then back to Ilyana. “My opinion? I think we should turn you in. You killed the King and you need to be held accountable.” Elric paused. “But, Arthion believes that there might be more to this than I assume. He tells me that his Whispering has confirmed that the two of you are telling the truth, and if that’s the case… then I want to ensure that those who are truly behind this answer for their crimes.” Elric paused.
Castien blinked. He hadn’t even noticed Arthion probing his mind. Strange.
“Arthion and I will accompany you—as your captors,” Elric continued, begrudgingly. “We will see if your claims about your King’s assassination are true… And you will lead us to the true masterminds behind King Titansworn’s murder.” Elric sighed. “And perhaps we can get an idea of what the Blood Sorcerers have planned for Arvendon. Then, Arthion and I will ensure that the two of you answer for your own part in this mess.”
“Thank you, thank you.” Castien fell to his knees, trying to hold himself together.
“But,” Elric growled, “I am going to return to the Palace and inform the Council that Arthion and I are leaving for Celes to investigate Avenos’s assassination,” Elric said. “If I do not return, Celes will pay the price, understand?”
Ilyana looked to Castien, then nodded.
“Try anything and I won’t hesitate to kill either of you,” Elric snarled. He waved a hand and lifted into the air. “I’m going to go inform the Council. I will meet the three of you on the hill,” Elric said, motioning to the incline behind him. “And if you even lay a finger on Sir Arthion while I’m gone, you’ll soon find your heads separated from your bodies, understood?”
“Understood,” Ilyana said.
Elric glanced at Arthion.
Arthion nodded, sliding his crossbow into the holder on his back. “I think this is the right way to proceed.” Arthion nodded. “Regardless of whether or not the King of Celes is truly dead, there is ample evidence of foul play. If Avenos did not lie to us, then someone on Miss Xirel’s side lied to her… Either way, we need to get to the bottom of this before war breaks out.”
Elric grumbled, rising higher into the sky using his Cloudwalker abilities. “Keep an eye on them. I’ll be back soon.”
Castien watched as Elric floated away, praying to the Six Divines that the Cloudwalker wasn’t simply going to call for reinforcements.
“How would Arvendon not know about King Nightingale’s assassination by now, if what you heard is true?” Arthion asked, turning to Ilyana.
“Elos locked down their borders. The only emissary they let through was the one coming to me,” Ilyana said. “That’s why no one in Arvendon has heard the news yet.”
“If Elos started locking down their borders, then we would’ve heard about it by now,” Arthion said. He paused, thinking. “Do you really think that they would’ve been able to keep everybody from crossing the border? What if a Cloudwalker had tried to cross? How would they have stopped one of them?”
Ilyana paused. She turned to Castien, then back to Arthion. “You think I was lied to?” Ilyana stepped forward. “My contact was a childhood friend—I trust him with my life.”
Arthion furrowed his brow. “Something strange is truly at play here,” Arthion said. “Who knows if the contact you met with was even the man he claimed to be… With all the Skin-Shapers and Illusomancers running around, who knows what truly happened?”
Castien started. “Wait, Illusomancers?”
“Ah, yes,” Arthion said, frowning. “After Faelyn was found unconscious, an elderly man stepped forward claiming to be an Illusomancer—and Faelyn’s secret advisor.”
“What?” Ilyana gaped.
“He created light out of thin air.” Arthion nodded. “Thus proving his claims to be true.”
“How is this possible?” Castien asked. “Are all of the Sects coming back?”
“I’m not sure, but it certainly is starting to look as if the Resurgence is upon us,” Arthion said.
“You said the Illusomancer is an advisor to Faelyn?” Ilyana asked.
Arthion nodded. “Eithor—as he calls himself—claims that he has been guiding Faelyn’s decisions for several weeks now… He has already tried to assume a position of power in Arvendon’s court.”
“See! Who knows what else the Titansworns have been keeping from you?” Ilyana said. “Who’s to say that Avenos didn’t order the murder of King Nightingale?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Arthion agreed. “Why do you think I convinced Elric to accompany you, rather than turn you in?” Arthion trailed off. “Although there is much that makes me question whether Nightingale was truly killed. I can’t help but wonder if there was a plot that Elric and I were unaware of.”
Castien looked to Arthion, then to Ilyana, then out to the grassy hill behind them. Turning back to Ilyana, he spoke. “Are we not even going to acknowledge the most troubling appearance of last night?” Castien asked, rubbing his shoulder carefully.
She stared at him blankly.
“The Shadow-Swifts?” Castien said, motioning. “They haven’t surfaced in such a public way for centuries from what I understand.”
“Castien brings up an interesting point,” Arthion said. “Perhaps they are involved in this madness.”
“It would make sense,” Ilyana said. “Strange things start happening with no explanation… The Shadow-Swifts always seem to be involved somehow.”
“Point is, dear friends, that I think the two of you are onto something,” Arthion said, smiling. “I’m not sure where the future of Auris is heading, but I am certain that I will not find answers in Arvendon any longer.” Arthion looked to his right, staring up toward the top of the cliff. “Elric will likely return within the hour, we should start moving,” Arthion said.
“Agreed,” Ilyana said. “We have no time to waste.” She started walking up the grassy hill leading away from the cliff, slightly inland.
Castien followed, brushing past Arthion.
Arthion laid a gloved hand on Castien’s right shoulder. “Castien, wait.”
Another headache started to come on as he turned to Arthion.
“I have something to give you,” Arthion said, unhooking the crossbow from his back. He looked to Castien’s bandaged arm, then back to his eyes. “I see that you’ve been injured… You can hardly shoot a bow with that arm, I assume?”
Castien nodded softly, feeling the warmth in his eyes once again.
“Try this,” Arthion said, turning the crossbow around so that Castien could take it. “I’m not a very good shot anyway.” Arthion chuckled softly, offering a warm smile.
Castien took the crossbow with his right hand, testing out its weight. It was heavier than an ordinary bow, but it seemed that he would be able to use this one even with his burned arm.
“You’re giving me your weapon?” Castien asked. “Elric just said you would be acting as our captors, why would you—”
“If you wanted to kill me, you would’ve done so already,” Arthion said, smiling. “Accept the gift, please. I hate seeing one so bright as you stuck like this.”
Castien looked back up to Arthion, allowing the warmth in his eyes to come forward. A gentle tear rolled down his cheek. He wasn’t sure why he was crying. Perhaps it was all that had happened over the past few days. Perhaps it was yet again because he could never return to Arvendon… Or perhaps it was Arthion’s simple act of kindness that brought tears to his eyes. Regardless of what it was, it felt good. At least with Arthion here, there was someone who trusted him.
“Oh,” Arthion exclaimed. “And you’ll need these too.” Arthion unhooked a quiver of bolts from his back, along with a light, hooked harness that would hold the crossbow in place when Castien wasn’t using it.
Castien tried to reach out to grab them with his left hand before remembering the bandage.
“My apologies.” Arthion laughed again. “Allow me to help you.” He strained, reaching over Castien’s head, gently lowering the harness into its place. Arthion helped Castien fasten the quiver to the harness, then stepped back and smiled.
Castien lifted the crossbow up, glancing at Ilyana as she walked a few hundred feet ahead.
“It suits you,” Arthion said, smiling once again.
“Thank you, Arthion,” Castien said. “You’re a kind man.” Castien smiled.
“Ah, you flatter me, Castien. But you’re more worthy of that weapon than I am.” the Whisperer waved his hand. He lifted his hood over his head once again. “Now come on, we need to catch up.” Arthion turned and started after Ilyana.
Castien reached over his shoulder and hooked the crossbow into place on his back, then followed Arthion. As he started walking further and further away from the cliff, he began to see the tip of Summerglass Palace far above.
The white marble castle was beautiful even in the night, despite missing one of its spires—which likely fell due to the damage the Shadow-Swifts had done.
Castien wondered if he would ever be inside that Palace again. A part of him feared that he wouldn’t, but he couldn’t let that be true. He would find a way home… he had to… he had to.
CHAPTER THREE
THE NATURE OF GRIEF
Blood… Fire… Shadows.
Death.
Faelyn Titansworn slowly opened his eyes. His head hurt, as did his chest, and his legs. Energy slowly trickled into his veins, a slight warming sensation drifting across his body. He tried to look around.
Judging by the thick gray curtains and the sturdy cot, he was somewhere in the Palace’s hospital. Calida’s Claws… He felt as if he had been asleep for an age—almost long enough for him to forget…
Father.
Faelyn’s pulse quickened, his eyes scanning the dim room for any signs of life. Nothing moved, though he could hear sounds from beyond the curtain. It was almost like… none of this was real. Nothing felt real, nothing could be real. What he remembered was… impossible. It must’ve been a fever dream of some sort, an elaborate construction of his imagination to entertain his drifting mind while his body healed from…
Something moved to his right.
Faelyn tried to move but found that he was unable to. Crystals clinked against one another somewhere close, but Faelyn kept his eyes on the shadow. No.
“I was wondering when you’d wake,” a voice said quietly. The shadow moved again, taking shape this time. “The doctors said it would be today, and they were right.” Eithor stepped into the dim light of the room, coming out from the shadow of the corner.
“You—” Faelyn stuttered. His tongue felt heavy and dry. His head pounded. Scorcher Crystals lay on either side of him, the steady flow of energy into his body meant to accelerate his healing. The light of the Scorcher Crystals hurt his eyes, amplifying his headache. The room felt like it was spinning.
“You must have many questions,” Eithor said. He pulled a chair out from against the wall and sat down beside Faelyn’s bed.
“I—” Faelyn could hardly speak. Where… Where do I even begin? He closed his eyes, letting darkness take him once again. “Is my father dead?”
“Yes,” Eithor said. “The doctors did what they could, but by the time they got to him it was clear that he had been departed for some time.”
Faelyn took a deep breath, feeling a pooling shame in his stomach. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to kill. But he couldn’t do anything. All he could do was sit here.
“Who did it?” Faelyn rasped.
“Two of the members of your father’s expedition: Castien Varic and Ilyana Xirel,” Eithor said. “The Stormless and the Dexteris.”
The Stormless? Faelyn rolled over, his fragile ribs aching in protest. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. No. Faelyn felt the warmth behind his eyes once again.
“And the Palace?” Faelyn croaked.
“The central wing as well as the upper floors have suffered extensive damage,” Eithor said. “And one of the spires has fallen… Though workers have been starting on repairs since the moment the Palace settled.” Eithor paused. “It will likely take several months—if not longer—to restore the Palace to its prior state.”
Faelyn groaned, the horrible ache in his chest and legs seeming to grow stronger. His head throbbed, impeding even the most basic thoughts from truly processing in his mind. It was impossible. It still seemed impossible. He wasn’t truly here. This was all a trick, or a dream, or a… Faelyn felt a steady tear flow from his closed eyes.
It was real. It was all real.
A terrible heat flooded his veins, threatening to release as his despair washed across his conscience. He screamed, a horrific, blood-curdling sound. He didn’t care. Why should he? His father was dead.
His father was dead.
His head exploded with pain, sending tremors through his entire body. Faelyn shook, groaning and screaming as his body convulsed.
Doctors rushed in from behind the curtain.
Faelyn didn’t care. He felt strong hands holding him down, but he continued screaming. Fire burned somewhere, igniting the cot. Heat marred his legs, striking through his broken body. Water poured onto his legs, and then his chest, putting out the flames, his anguish silenced.
Something sharp poked his left arm, sending a wave of pain through Faelyn’s thrashing body. He threw his body in any way he could move, doing anything to satisfy this horrific urge within his mind. It was like an itch that could not be scratched, a thought that could not be killed. It was rage. It was something Faelyn had never known—not like this. It was terror, and anguish, and despair, and anger, and fear, and… and…
A heavy blanket covered his mind. Undulating waves of exhaustion danced across his body, visions of shadows and blood replacing the terror. Faelyn, despite himself, despite everything, smiled. Relief.
Faelyn took a long, heavy breath. His eyelids closed once again, as if sealed by a lock whose key had been thrown away. His arms went limp, and the pain in his legs and chest went away. Finally, as if in a dramatic final show of resistance, the throbbing in his head faded, and Faelyn surrendered himself to the darkness.
The relief was gone. Faelyn felt it as he awoke… That pain. That dread… It was back, stronger than ever. Faelyn’s heavy eyes opened once again. He was in this cursed corner room still. The heavy gray curtains were drawn, and his bed was filled with fresh, frustratingly bright Scorcher Crystals to aid his healing.
A shadow moved in the corner once again, the shape of Eithor forming from the darkness and stepping forward.
Faelyn closed his eyes, letting out a pained groan. His head hurt again, as did everything else. He was sweating, yet he was cold. Bandages scraped against his wounds, sending violent pricks of pain all throughout his body. His throbbing headache made it hard to think.
“May we speak? Or shall I call the doctors to deliver another anesthetic?” Eithor asked, the sound of his chair scraping against the stone floor bringing Faelyn’s attention back.
Faelyn lay still, falling silent. Father… He wanted to scream, and thrash, and burn. But he could not. His mind still felt so, so heavy. Whatever they had given him must still be wearing off. If only it would last longer… Faelyn’s hands twitched, craving that relief once again.
“We are still investigating the involvement of the Shadow-Swifts in the assassination,” Eithor said. “I have ordered several teams to track down your father’s killers and bring them back here, to answer to you,” Eithor said. “Despite our efforts, I fear that those teams will return empty-handed. The assassins escaped over the edge of the cliffs and fled the beach before daybreak yesterday morning.
“Elric believes he and Arthion might have a lead in Celes,” Eithor said. “They have already departed for the Elosian Capital, but I estimate their chances of success to be… low.”
“How long have I been out?” Faelyn whispered.
“By my count, roughly forty hours,” Eithor said. “From what we can gather, the Shadow-Swift broke several of your ribs, though the real damage was done by the strike to your head.”
“What?” Faelyn asked, trying to block out the bright light of the Crystals.
“You were found unconscious in one of the northern hallways with a growing bruise on the back of your head,” Eithor said. “I presume one of the assassins struck you before escaping.”
“I…” Faelyn tried to say. His headache impeded his thoughts once again.
“The hit gave you a severe concussion,” Eithor continued. “You will likely suffer headaches for many weeks to come, but you should feel well enough to walk within a few days. Your body has been absorbing energy from the Scorcher Crystals while you’ve been asleep; they should accelerate your healing nicely.” Eithor fell silent.
Faelyn groaned, wincing as a pang of hurt shot through his chest. “Was anyone else hurt?” Faelyn rasped.
“A few squadrons of guards have been found dead,” Eithor said. “Some of the nobles were injured, as well as several Lesser Summoners—likely by the collapse of parts of the Palace.”
“And the rest of the guards?”
“Rattled—to say the least—but they are alright,” Eithor said.
Faelyn closed his eyes, his mind drifting into the darkness. Thoughts of the Blood Sorcerers came to him. Perhaps they were involved in this, Faelyn thought. But what could he do? In less than four weeks, Velarus would return with an army of Blood Sorcerers. Even if Faelyn managed to piece the city back together by then, it would simply be torn down again.
